


Words Soft as Cotton

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Thedas, Mostly Fluff, Some light angst, chubby alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: “Zevran meets Alistair at the airport.”On how Zevran and Alistair get together by the sheer power of pastel coloured clothing.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	1. Loom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antivanfutch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antivanfutch/gifts).



> I typed this fic possessed by the incredibly cute and wholesome energy that [ these modern Zevran and Alistair fanarts by antivanfutch ](https://antivanfutch.tumblr.com/post/184922530961/some-zevistair-from-a-few-months-agoi-lov-them)transmitted. It ended up turning into a half decent fic, even if stylistically is a bit far away from what I'm used to.  
> I know Antiva is a mix of Spain and Italy, and therefore Antivan must be a mix of both languages too, but as a student of linguistics I cannot murder both languages merging them into one, so I went for Spanish=Antivan—as I’m a native and know that I won’t fuck up.  
> Thanks to An, as I’m a big fan of her art and she allowed me to write this short piece inspired by her work.  
> Thanks, as always, [ Nerel ](https://brokenmobious.tumblr.com/) for betaing.  
> Happy (late)Dragon Age Day everyone!

Zevran meets Alistair at the airport.

By Cousland’s description and how she talked about him, Zevran had imagined a giant force of nature contained in a tiny and clumsy body. A common human body, nondescript and barely remarkable except for what resided inside.

The man Zevran sees is everything but unremarkable. Sure, the haircut is as military and as Fereldan male as they come, and he looks as every recently discharged Warden looks—eyes sunken, rumpled clothes and regular issue blue sports bag slung over his arm; longing for home apparent on his irises. Alistair ticks all those boxes, and automatically generates and fills a couple more; his smile as warm and soft as those ridiculous Satinalia sweaters that Wynne made last year, his voice as gentle and sweet as the evening sun. The hug that he gives Elissa makes Zevran almost long for one—long for something he hasn’t allowed himself in years.

But a handshake must do. And if Zevran notices how Alistair briefly blushes upon seeing him smile he doesn’t make a comment about it—yet.

* * *

_Cariño_ at first fits. It’s impersonal enough. Generic enough. He tosses it around like any other person would toss names. Doesn’t have a higher value.

* * *

He thinks about it as lust at first.

He regards it as lust too.

Flirts around the feeling like he has always done, like he did when he almost got killed due to his recklessness, like he did before he met Elissa—before he met Alistair.

He prefers to think about him as someone simple and not that deep, which turns to be a mistake less than two days into knowing him. There are layers in this Fereldan chantry boy that go beyond humble upbringing and a probable repressed sexuality; or so Zevran dares to hope.

He flirts around the feeling as if it were lust because regarding it as something more scares him.

He thinks he manages to fuck the feeling away with a tall dark Free Marcher he meets at the Pearl.

He thinks because he doesn’t manage to flirt around the sincere ‘thank you’ that escapes his lips when Alistair brings him half-burnt homemade butter cookies after dance practice.

* * *

_Cielo_ is a step up, one that Alistair doesn’t seem to notice. The first time it slips through his lips is playful and unwanted. From then on, it’s almost caring and soon turns into _cielito_. Zevran refuses to accept the implications. Refuses to accept the warm evening sky.

* * *

Zevran knows a set up when he sees one. _Brasca_ he’s set up enough people of his own to recognize when the same is being done to him.

“I just think that he can do better than basic white tees and jeans,” Elissa tries to argue, the last bite of the croissant she’s having for lunch disappearing between her lips, “think about it as some bonding exercise.” Her other hand is holding the phone, and Zevran can hear Alistair’s voice on the other side, “He definitely wants to go,” she stage whispers, getting the phone away from her ear.

Zevran doesn’t hide the smirk that blooms on his lips upon hearing Alistair’s muffled protests on the other end of the line.

“How could I say no to an outing with my dear friend?”

Zevran doesn’t hide the pleased smile into which it grows upon hearing Alistair stutter.

* * *

He drops ‘my friend’. He drops the epithet. Alistair has noticed and Zevran doesn’t know how to react. He has called all who he tried to shutter away from him ‘friend’ throughout his lifetime, so he doesn’t like having to change for Alistair—at least, at first.

* * *

“You can try that one out you know…”

“But it’s—pink…”

“Yes, a most enchanting colour. It will probably suit you.”

“Zev—I don’t know about that…”

“You can always try it out, and if you don’t like it we will just leave, _cielo_.”

They leave the mall with the pastel pink sweater on top of the bag where Alistair carries a light blue denim jacket and two pairs of military green slacks.

He looks incredibly happy, and Zevran does not know how to manage being responsible for that happiness.

* * *

He does not even remember how he comes up with _principito_ , probably by mere association, by the image of a knight in shiny armour that Alistair embodies. Alistair is no knight though, and Zevran wouldn’t dare call his almost twenty-year-old silver sedan that smells like naphthalene an armour; or a steed. But seeing Leliana place a golden tinsel crown on top of his head must do something to Zevran´s already alcohol addled mind, because he refuses to drop the nickname from then on.

* * *

“’Tis remarkable how much better that fool dresses since you took it upon yourself to take him on shopping strolls,” Morrigan is holding a red wine glass.

She’s probably the only one whose makeup remains untouched, fireworks resounding through the street, a monotonous ‘boom’ and ‘aaaw’ that’s been repeating itself for minutes now, in stark contrast to the off-tune rendition of _Nightingales Eyes_ that Leliana and Alistair are performing on the other side of the slightly ajar crystal door of the balcony.

“It was not a difficult task, improving his wardrobe, that is,” he tilts his champagne flute in her direction, the warm orange light coming from Sten’s apartment making the liquid look like molten gold.

“I do wonder if you are not trying to improve—other things,” she clinks her glass against his, purple painted lips almost black against in the backlit terrace.

“As there’s not much to improve in other departments,” he clarifies, sharper than he should have.

Morrigan notices, she always does.

* * *

Alistair started calling him Zev mirroring Elissa, mirroring the easy rapport they showed him whenever he had to work a case with them. The way they both pronounce it differs, shows who is a bit fluent in Antivan and who makes his name a slightly more humming variation of a zebra. He finds it too endearing to care. He should be worried about not caring, but he has begun to let the shutters open and refuses to let them roll back down.

* * *

The next time it happens it's Alistair who asks him to go. His excuse is that he’s soiled more shirts than he’s ready to reckon helping Oghren at the garage, and Zevran allows Alistair to believe that he believes him.

They’ve been doing this for half a year. This dance that Zevran is not familiar with and doesn’t know the steps to, even if when the first beats began, he was the one leading. And now he fears stepping on himself—he fears mistaking the tune, misplacing his hand, turning the wrong way or dipping his partner when he should not.

Alistair tries to lead Zevran in between the stalls of the shop they visited last time like he has no destination in particular, as if Zevran didn’t know that they are going to end in front of the cornflower blue short shirts, that could be considered long crop-tops, were they in a less male-oriented store.

“It would bring out your eyes, and you could probably wear it along with those jeans,” he says offhandedly, seeing Alistair continue with his pretence, as if his fingers hadn’t traced the woolly material before landing on top of a pair of faded jeans.

“Yeah, and show my love for Fereldan cheese to anyone who wanted to look,” Alistair snorts, tugging his shirt up to show soft chubby skin that Zevran remembers to have seen a bit more toned when they had met.

“Let them look then, there is plenty to admire,” he says it to earn himself a pretty blush. Alistair does not disappoint.

It is wearing that outfit when they first kiss less than a week later.

* * *

_Mi rey_ sounded ridiculous to him when he was younger. Something to win over older male targets. Something to be said in reverent whispers when Taliesen was in the mood, when Rinna was not around to chastise him. Saying it to Alistair feels like a promise, even if he looks confused and asks more than once why he’s being compared to a ray. Zevran tries to kiss that worry away.

* * *

Visits to Redcliffe never end well. Zevran has never been there, it’s a place that lives in the back of his mind as that town Alistair visits because his remaining biological family lives there or, at least, the closest thing he’s got resembling that.

“Eamon was good to me and I never could thank him properly, the least I can do is visit, especially after how sick he was,” Alistair argues, his voice muffled coming from the laundry room.

“You spent half a month trying to find a place where they could treat him after your return, he should know that a simple phone-call sometimes is more than enough, _mi rey_ ,” he has made his way from the kitchen to the door frame, his hips resting against it, close to a kneeling Alistair that’s still dumping clothes from his bag into the machine.

“Look, Zev, I spent almost five years away and I’m not going to—not go just because of some issues I had with his wife a decade ago,”

Zevran does not like Eamon for what he’s trying to do with Alistair now. Zevran does not like Isolde for what she did to Alistair when he was a child. Zevran does not like Connor for what he symbolises both to that family and to Alistair. Someone new, a new and easier clay figure to shape. Not a bastard, not a clumsy child with sharp ears, darker skin and a keen mind, ready to learn but taught not to. Someone he could never dream to be.

“As you wish, _tesoro_ ,”

* * *

_Tesoro_ because it’s what Alistair means to him. Because he’s not ready to ever let go of all the goodness, all the unbidden love that he did not know someone could demonstrate to another person without hoping for something in exchange. He just wants Alistair to be his treasure, his six feet tall gentle giant who seems too much for the rest of the world but that’s just perfect for him.

* * *

The dog upstairs is doing his midnight rounds. Her paws scratch the linoleum floor of the room on top of theirs before she marches back towards where Zevran presupposes that there’s her owners’ bedroom.

The night is warm and they’ve left the window open, the soft Solace breeze moving the curtains which tickle Alistair’s feet, who rolls over, closer to Zevran, Alistair’s sweaty skin coming in contact with Zevran’s—who doesn’t mind.

“I don’t wanna leave,” he hears Alistair whisper, twists himself a little to find Alistair’s eyes fixed on his, turns completely around so that he can properly look him in the eye, trail his calloused fingers over the soft expanse of Alistair’s back.

“Then who will protect our dear friend, _tesoro_? She needs you in the field as much as I need you around here,” he feels Alistair’s fingers coming up to trace his tattoo, feels them dip to caress his cheeks, his lips. He cannot name the feeling inside his chest. He hasn’t felt this way in months, in years.

“I don’t wanna leave without you,” Alistair insists, his head coming up to butt his forehead against Zevran, their naked bodies coming into contact once again, which gives Zevran more than one idea of how to divert this conversation.

But Alistair’s eyes are dead set on Zevran’s; so he acquiesces, drops down his defences, kisses his partner’s nose. “Allow me,” Zevran moves his hand until it reaches his nightstand, finds the box where he keeps his jewellery by mere touch. He lifts it and moves it on top of the bed, separating a bit from Alistair to tug at the little compartment that’s at the bottom.

“I hope this is not a proposal, ‘cause I have nothing to pay the wedding with, and very little to my name to supply a proper dowry,” he hears Alistair joke, fingers finally grasping a golden metal ring, an open one, which he offers under the faint light that the streetlights outside grant them, making Alistair almost choke while he tries to push himself up.

“Do not fear, I am not trying to kill you on our bed, at least not like this.”

The flirting seems to calm Alistair a bit. So Zevran tells him about the earring, tells him about the rich kid he robbed it to and what it symbolizes. He tells him about Rinnala and Taliesen nearing two in the morning, because by this time Alistair is propped up against the headboard and Zevran’s head is against his chest, the golden hoop having changed hands a dozen times in the last couple of hours.

Zevran met Alistair at the airport.

Zevran lets Alistair properly meet him that night, in that bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cariño- Darling.  
> Cielo- Sky, term of endearment, can be used both platonically and romantically. The suffix -ito, is a diminutive, making cielito, little sky.  
> Principito- Little prince. Same as with cielo and the diminutive suffix to denote affection.  
> Mi rey- My king. Reserved for romantic partners usually, shows reverence and devotion along with affection.  
> Tesoro- Treasure. Common term of endearment, both platonic and romantic.  
> \--  
> Short epilogue ahead!


	2. Loose Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coda

It’s not always Alistair the one who goes away. Sometimes Zevran has to leave, for weeks if they are lucky, for months if the situation requires it. Alistair doesn’t know what _the situation_ is, but he’s not innocent enough not to hear the rumours of the Black Shadow and connect the dots.

He fingers the earring the nights Zevran is away. He caresses the gold smooth surface and thinks about him, notices that the poetry book Leliana gifted them, where Zevran keeps the pressed dry rose, is usually absent during his leaves.

He usually returns with sunrise, gets in the shower before he drops into bed, his hair still wet, his body usually thinner than Alistair remembers. Alistair holds him tight if he has woken up—he always does as soon as he hears the front door latch click open—peppers his face with kisses and soft slurred endearments that Zevran never returns, just offers a small, tired smile.

Alistair makes breakfast for one those days, lunch for two. He tries to cook that rice dish with meat and veggies that Zevran likes so much and that Alistair has, thanks to trial and error, learnt how not to burn; even if making it taste as good as Zevran does always escapes him.

He doesn’t always bring wine. He sometimes just fills their glasses with water and serves the rice in deep bowls, knocking on the door that he’s kept closed until now before he sits down on their lumpy sofa and switches the TV on.

Zevran plops down next to him in a couple of minutes. He sometimes takes longer. Alistair never comments and just huddles closer, and if coverage on how the CEO of some big multinational was arrested for having connections to the Crows is being broadcasted, they both ignore it.

The comfort and closeness are what Zevran tends to need after they finish, a walk through the neighbourhood and a visit to their friends, accompanied by dinner out. Dinner in a place with live music and good ale.

Other times he needs sex, and Alistair indulges him, no matter the type he asks for—no matter if it’s tender lovemaking or a rough tumble in the couch—because he knows that afterwards Zevran will mutter ‘ _Gracias_ ’ in a soft strangled whisper, and they will both pretend that Alistair doesn’t kiss tears from the edge of Zevran’s now gentle golden eyes.

It’s not always Alistair the one who goes away, but he’s sure that it’s infinitely easier for him to be awaited for than to be the one doing the waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos and comments mean the world to me, as they keep me writing.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr ](https://midwrites.tumblr.com/).  
> I’ll probably write something else for these two dorks in the near future, as I’m getting the hang of writing them and I enjoy their dynamics a lot.


End file.
